


Count to Twelve

by cupidty11



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter Rewrite: 23 Malfoy Manor, Chapter rewrite, Dissociation, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Draco is dealing with tons of awful shit, During the War, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Malfoy Manor, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, POV Draco Malfoy, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Seer Draco Malfoy, Suicidal Thoughts, Terror and anxiety, There is lots of warnings, Torture, Trying to keep this realistic and in character, between harry and draco, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidty11/pseuds/cupidty11
Summary: Draco had his first vision a week after Charity Burbage was eaten at his dinner table.--A rewrite of Chapter Twenty Three: Malfoy Manor of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Draco's POV, where he is a Seer (though he doesn't know it yet).





	Count to Twelve

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: As you can see from the tags, there is some sensitive stuff here. Mentions of torture, actual torture, mentions of murder, implied/referenced sexual assault and harassment, Draco has PTSD and possibly other mental illnesses though I do not specify what they are ( he has dark thoughts that tend to loop in his mind and he finds comfort by counting), prejudice and discrimination as seen in canon. 
> 
> Basically this is very dark, as this section of the book was. I bumped it up a bit.

Draco had his first vision a week after Charity Burbage was eaten at his dinner table.

A week after The Dark Lord had decreed the Malfoys nearly redundant. A week after being crucioed for so long that his hands did not stop shaking for several days afterwards, everything dull and painful. The twitching was finally diminishing with the help of his mother’s charms and Severus’ potions.

It did not stop the rushing in his mind, the way he would find his thoughts constantly drawn back to certain subjects, certain thoughts. Stuck in a loop he couldn’t escape; harsh, hot breath pressing him into dark,dusty corners; the sound of that wretched snake slithering, hissing, eating; iron chains clanging somewhere below his feet; screams and what they could mean, he didn’t want to know but then his own mind would provide him with images that made him sick; failure,failure, failure and the quickly becoming familiar urge to just press his wand against his temple and whisper the words to end it all in a bright green flash.

Draco had never once in all his years in the manor, felt unease or fear of even the darkest corners. Now, he was terrified to leave his room.

The wood of his wand creaked in sweaty palms, as he stared at nothing from his fetal position on the bed.

A loud, jarring crash. It echoed down the halls, reverberating and sounding much bigger than it probably was. Someone yelled in response; he couldn’t tell if it was in pain or anger. All that mattered was that the door was locked, and guarded with twelve different charms. His heavy silverwood dresser shoved in front of it.

“I am okay.” He whispered, loathing how weak his voice sounded. He had to say it three more times before it actually had any effect on his shaking hands.

Exhaustion pulled down on him as it had the last few weeks, making everything heavy and slow. Somewhere between hearing a scream from some prisoner, echoing all the way up from the drawing room to the place where he was shivering with adrenaline fueled terror and passing into a fitful sleep, he thought he dreamed.

One of the most vivid dreams he’d ever had. Colors and light overly bright. And yet, it also felt fuzzy, every detail shifting second by second. The sun beams changing position as time did, the people around him, what clothing people wore, where they were.

But, one thing remained clear.

_He dreamed of Harry Potter._

_It didn’t look like him in the face. For It was swollen and disfigured. Lacking the familiar dark round frames of his glasses._

_But, it was the eyes. They remained as they had always been. An overwhelming emerald that seemed to see everything inside of him and found Draco lacking. The green eyes did not meet his gaze. Draco didn’t blame him. He didn’t want to meet it either._

_There was dark pressure all around him, harsh and overwhelming. And a reluctance. A fear. Knowledge._

_There was a choice to make._

_It ended. Not in red blood. But, in a green flash that tasted of ozone. And in a eerie silence that followed the familiar thud of a corpse hitting the floor._

_The thud echoed and repeated until it sounded like thousands of bodies falling in the exact same way._

Draco came awake as if he’d never fallen asleep, gasping and wheezing. His lungs burned and his blood thrummed with a terrible Knowing.

It was a dream.

“It was a dream.” Draco said, louder than he usually dared.

Somewhere a door slammed shut. He curled up tighter, gripping his wand, refusing to acknowledge that his hand was shaking again.

“A dream.” He whispered, blankly. He said it to himself until he started to believe it. It took a long time. 

* * *

 

There was a commotion. People yelling excitedly.

Draco wondered if he could escape out the window. Nothing good ever came from anyone being excited around here. Then he heard his name and froze. As though if he kept still, no one would see him.

It didn’t work.

“What is this?” Father drawled, trying to sound aloof.

“They say they’ve got Potter.” His mother said, voice like steel. He could hear the underlying derision, her anger towards his father. It had been building for a long time and he doubted it would be abating soon. “Draco, come here.”

He forced himself to stand and look at the arriving entourage.

Greyback was there and Draco felt a soul deep revulsion, skin crawling as he unwillingly remembered everything the werewolf had threatened him with last time they’d been in the same room. He was safe. His mother and father were here. Draco swallowed and stepped forward despite Greyback’s sharp, lewd grin prodding at him like a needle.

The wolf was holding someone in his claws, shoving them forward under the chandelier’s weak light.

The world became ice. His blood running with a slush that froze his limbs, stopped his heart with that terrible Knowing. It was like dejavu times 100.

Harry Potter looked awful.

_It didn’t look like him in the face. For It was swollen and disfigured. Lacking the familiar dark round frames of his glasses._

_But, it was the eyes. They remained as they had always been. An overwhelming emerald that seemed to see everything inside of him and found Draco lacking. The green eyes did not meet his gaze. Draco didn’t blame him. He didn’t want to meet it either._

The hate that Draco had carried inside for the last 7 years of his life was absent, in its place was a cold sort of emptiness.

He knew this. How did he know this? This had happened before. In a dream... But that was impossible.

“Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?” His father’s voice rose, slightly unhinged.

In the dream, there had been a choice. If he chose wrong, it would end in blood. In Potter’s death. And with it, a thousand more.

It made sense. With Potter’s death, The Dark Lord’s only real opposition, the symbol of light would be gone.

His mind raced. This was insanity (maybe he had finally gone around the bend). He’d never been one to believe in things he couldn’t touch. Logic insisted Draco discount this as what it should be; dejavu, a trick of the mind, coincidence. And yet...he could not shake off the feeling of Knowing. Of seeing the dream overlaying the reality.

And if it hadn’t been JUST a dream, if it was true... Draco couldn’t say ‘ _yes, this is Harry Potter_ ’. Because then He would come. And Potter would die. Draco had seen too many corpses to be okay with even one more. Not even Potter’s.

Maybe, especially Potter’s.

But, if he said ‘no’ and they somehow found out the boy before them WAS Potter, Draco would definitely be punished.

Punishment was something to avoid at all cost.

“I can’t--I can’t be sure,” Draco didn’t look at anything, not at Greyback, especially not at the boy before him.

“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Father bid, grabbing his shoulder with clammy hands and pulling him forward to the Dream's perimeter. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv--”

“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” Greyback growled.

Draco fought to keep his composure, not to shudder; Being trapped in a corner, rancid hot breath on his face. A hand on his chest, gripping his arms, pawing at his crotch. All of it about pain and control and dragging the same fearful reaction to the forefront. All yellowing sharp teeth and mocking laughter. Whispering threats and promises. He’s trapped in a corner, rancid hot breath on his face.

Draco shook himself and counted to twelve. Sometime the only way to stop the thoughts, to wrestle any kind of control over his own mind was to count. And twelve was a good number. A safe number.

“Of course not, of course not!” But, Draco knew father was just being placating. If there was any chance to get back into the Dark Lord’s good graces, he would do it. Even if it meant throwing his dignity under the bus. Even if it meant lying to the face of a insane werewolf. Even if it meant agreeing to crucio his own son.

Not that there had been much of a choice. There were few choices, anymore.

“What did you do to him?” Father asked.

Draco felt like he was floating somewhere above himself. That had been happening a lot lately. Like his soul had decided it had just had enough and left his body, leaving him numb.

The strange dream had come true. He’d done his best to forget it, pushing it to the side. Now, here it was again, coming to life before his eyes. That wasn’t normal. Draco had always had vivid dreams. But, nothing, nothing like this. Now, his pulse throbbed,an uneven beat in his soul. Little snippets of the Dream arising like photographs, looping, looping...

_It ended. Not in red blood. But, in a green flash that tasted of ozone. And in a eerie silence that followed the familiar thud of a corpse hitting the floor._

_The thud echoed and repeated until it sounded like thousand of bodies falling in the exact same way._

“Draco,” His father snapped. It was like cold water, dragging him back to this fucking awful situation. “Come here, look properly! What do you think?”

Draco thought that if the Dark Lord looked into his mind and saw that he had KNOWN it was Potter and that he lied, he was going to be killed. He thought that Harry Potter looked braver than HIM, and he was deep in enemy territory, trapped between werewolves and imminent death. Draco thought that his heart was beating so fast that he might pass out. Blood roared in his ears. It was awful and humiliating and he couldn’t even care.

“I don’t know,” Except he KNEW. He _knew_ like he knew the sky was blue, like he knew the back of his hand, knew the secret passages in his wing of the manor.

Draco walked towards his mother, who had been his one point of light in this place that had once been home. Mother didn’t look at him but, she shifted her body slightly towards him, tense like she would jump in front of him at a moment’s notice. She held an unfamiliar wand.

“We had better be certain, Lucius. Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord...They say this is his but, it does not resemble Ollivander’s description...if we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing...Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”

Draco bit his lip, staring into the fireplace. Rowle had pissed himself, sobbing. Dolohov had screamed until his throat bled.

“What about the Mudblood, then?” Greyback growled.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t even noticed. His entire focus had been on Potter. But, of course Granger and Weasley were here as well. They _might_ have been in the Dream. They had shifted and faded, the details that weren’t solid. He curled his hands into fists to stop their shaking. There was lots of shuffling behind him and he knew, that Granger was being shoved into the place Potter had been.

“Wait, yes--yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”

This part hadn’t been in the Dream. He didn’t even look at her. He looked to the side of her. Even without that though, he could see her wild, curly hair.

“I...maybe,” He swallowed. There was no real way to deny it was her. She looked like Granger and anyone who went to Hogwarts would know it. “Yeah.”

And even as he said it he was picturing her dead the same way he’d seen so many like her. Maybe once he would’ve wanted it, or at least believed he had. But, he’d seen the reality of it. His stomach twisted with nausea and Draco turned away, back towards the fireplace. The flames burned his retinas and he forced himself to keep his eyes open.

Mudbloods and purebloods, half bloods and squibs and muggles. He’d seen them all in chains and writhing on the floor, under the indifferent wand of his Master. All died the same; whether they went out with terror or defiance, they ended up blank and stiff. All blood spilled was red and inglorious.

He counted to twelve.

“But then, that’s the Weasley boy! It’s them, Potter’s friends--Draco look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name--?”

Draco couldn’t force himself to give the name his father wanted of him. Couldn’t even bring himself to turn and see if it really was Ron Weasley, though he knew simply by the presence of Potter and Granger that it must be. He couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything useful. He wasn’t a hero (and only deep inside did he acknowledge that a hero would’ve done something much different to the things he’d done). He wasn’t good. Or brave. He just wanted this to be done. To be over with.

Preferably with the most people alive, as possible.

“Yeah,” Bile rose at the back of his throat. “It could be.”

The door opened,creaking the way it had only started to in the last few months. “What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?”  Draco stiffened. Aunt Bellatrix’s heels clicked on the marble floor. An executioner's drum beat. “But surely this is the Mudblood girl?” Even though she whispered, it was loud in his ears. “This is Granger?”

“Yes, it’s Granger! And beside her, we think, Potter!” His father spat, desperate and manic. Draco had stopped recognizing him months ago. “Potter and his friends, caught at last!”

“Potter?! Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!” Draco impossibly, tensed even further. Distantly, he listened to them argue, deciding who would be the one to call him, who deserved credit, whose authority was higher. The flames writhed in the hearth, creating shapes and symbols he couldn’t quite discern.

He made a list in his head:

  * Draco needed to occlude his mind before He arrived.
  * He must be prepared to show Him the bare minimum.
  * Enough to satisfy Him that it was the truth, without showing Him his true intentions or knowledge.
  * He must not find out about the Dream.



If Draco was lucky, there would only be humiliation rather than crucio. Or death.

“STOP!” Aunt Bellatrix screamed. Draco was so tense that he only twitched, instead of jumping like he usually did. He was thankful that no one was paying attention to him, for once. Usually, any sign of weakness meant days of taunting. His two biggest taunters however were currently too busy to notice his cowardice. “Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”

Bellatrix knew Him better than anyone. As well as anyone could know something like Him. “What is that?” She asked, deceptively sweet. He instinctively shielded his thoughts from her, skin crawling.

“Sword,” some idiot grunted. Probably one of the snatchers that had brought the three of them.

“Give it to me.” The sickly sweetness was edging out of her voice fast, madness rumbling below it, hidden, deadly rapids.

“It’s not yorn, missus, it's mine, I reckon I found it.” Even before he could begin to wonder just how much of a fucking moron this guy was, there was a bang and a flash of red light. It wasn’t green, so he let out the breath he had been holding. The other snatchers all roared with anger.

“What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?”

“ _Stupefy! Stupefy_!” Draco twitched with each spell cast. Certain that her madness would start expanding, stretching until she didn’t care who she was aiming at.

The bodies fell with dull thuds. Bodies always fell with dull thuds that felt incongruous to the ending of a life.

 _They were alive_ , Draco told himself. They were ALIVE. _For now_ , a tiny voice whispered.

He counted to twelve.

Then he did it again. Until his breathing was no longer so fast that he saw black spots flashing before his eyes. Pathetic.

“Where did you find this sword? Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”

“It was in their tent! Release me, I say!” Greyback barked.

“Draco, move this scum outside,” Bellatrix demanded. He bit his tongue and turned to look as she gestured at the unconscious men all frozen in their shock and rage. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me.”

Blood welled in his mouth. Draco didn’t even take offense at being ordered around anymore. Instead he was thinking about how this could be a way out of this situation. And there was no way he was killing them. Though she obviously knew that. Knew he was a failure of a Death Eater.

The truly insane part was how he hesitated. Concerned that she would kill Potter while he was gone. Debating if her loyalty to the Dark Lord outweighed her madness.

“Don’t you dare speak to Draco like--” Mother jumped to his defense as she always did, cold exterior cracking.

“Be quiet! This situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!” Bellatrix examined the sword, panting with leftover rage. She turned back to the prisoners. “If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed. The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself...But if he finds out...I must...I must know...”

Draco on the other hand had no desire to know anything. Bellatrix turned back to her sister, face alight with her parody of emotions. “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”

Mother drew herself up, looking down her nose at her sister. “This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my--”

“Do it! You have no idea the danger we are in!” And she meant it. Whatever had happened because of this sword, Aunt Bellatrix was sure it was a problem that could mean their deaths. Draco believed her.

Mother obviously had come to the same conclusion because she turned to face the werewolf. “Take these prisoners down the cellar, Greyback.”

“Wait, all except...except the for the Mudblood.” Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

Weasley bellowed, “NO! You have me, keep me!” Bellatrix slapped him, the sound echoing through the room.

Draco looked at the floor. Bellatrix wanted to keep Granger and that only meant one thing. His eyes blurred over the vision of blood, contorted bodies, screaming. His hand twitched, a phantom reaction. Crucio truly was unique. Anytime, Draco saw it happening to someone else, he remembered how he hadn’t even wanted it to stop. He had not been coherent enough for that. Pain became every sense. Having experienced it meant he suddenly found himself empathizing with others in ways he never had before.

He did not want to empathize with Granger. Not because of this.

He counted to twelve.

“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next. Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book.” Bellatrix taunted. “Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them--yet.”

Draco wished he was far away from here. That this wasn’t happening. That this was all a bad dream. He wished for it every single night before he fell asleep and was always disappointed when he woke up, huddled on his bed or hiding in his closet. Everywhere outside of his closet, were the monsters. Like a frightened child. It seemed that was what he had been reduced to.

He didn’t watch his aunt separate Granger from the other two with her trusty silver dagger, dragging her by the hair. He didn’t watch Greyback drag Potter and Weasley to the other side of the room where the cellar was, whispering threats in their ears. And he definitely didn’t watch as she threw Granger to the ground. As Bellatrix climbed on top of her, holding her down.

Draco turned back to the fireplace, only noticing faintly how he was shaking. His mind was far away again, separate from what was happening barely ten feet away. On the marble floor that he used to slide around on his socks on long summer days. Where he used to lay on the floor in the same place and stare at the chandelier, thinking of his family’s legacy and of the future held in his hands.

Hermione Granger screamed for the first time.

He wanted to die.

As always, some tiny part of him spoke up in the barest whisper; _what can I do? What should I do? I should stop this. I have to stop this. How can I stop this?_

And like always, he knew that he couldn’t. Not even just because he couldn't move, frozen in terror and indecision. But, because he knew he wasn’t good enough. Not a hero. He would be killed as soon as he decided to fight back. And then where would that leave his parents? They would take the brunt. It was the same conundrum he’d faced with Dumbledore and the vanishing cabinet. His failures weren’t just his own, they were his family’s. That had always been the case.

This wasn’t the first time he’d listened to his aunt torture someone and wished that he was better, stronger, smarter, braver. But, this was the first time that he KNEW the person. He’d seen Granger eating breakfast, studying in the library, laughing with her friends, raising her hand at every single question. She’d punched him in the face. It stung for three days despite the episkey.

Draco had hated Granger. Yes, because she was a mudblood. But, mostly because she was a mudblood that had been better than him. No matter how hard he tried, she was always just ahead. And she had Potter’s friendship. But, just like how he’d searched for the hatred for Potter and found it lacking, the same could be said for Granger.

“Where did you get this sword?” Bellatrix asked, with that same sweet voice tinged in madness. He’d heard it in his skull, pushing at him over and over until he could keep her out. And sometimes, if he wasn’t vigilant, she would sneak in and taunt him with his deepest secrets, his most humiliating moments and thoughts.

_‘Oh ickle Drakykins is afraid of the sight of blood. What a coward you are. ’_

_‘Do your parents know you are a degenerate? I see your dreams, boy.’_

_‘You must try harder! Harder! No! Not good enough. You are never good enough, are you?You never will be.’_

One, two, three...

Granger’s voice was strong despite the pain she must’ve been in. It only trembled a little bit. “We found it.” Bellatrix obviously found that answer to be lacking because Granger screamed again.

Four, five, six...

“Where did you get this sword?” Bellatrix shrieked.

“We. Found. It.” Granger bit out, but her voice was threaded with more fear, more pain. He flinched when she screamed, though he had expected it to happen.

“YOU ARE LYING!” Bella shrieked along with her.

Draco distantly wondered if he was going to listen to Hermione Granger die.

Seven, eight, nine...

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?”

“We found it--we found it--PLEASE!” Granger cried. Draco shut his eyes and tried to breathe, lest he throw up the little he’d managed to eat this morning.

“You are a lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!”

Granger screamed. Draco counted.

Ten, eleven, twelve...

“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

Counting wasn’t working. He swallowed around bile, heart was beating so fast that he was sure he would pass out. Between Granger’s next scream and Bellatrix standing up, forgetting her silver knife to crucio her victim, his head went fuzzy from the way he was hyperventilating. Draco’s struggle was hidden well by Bellatrix's yelling.

“How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty goblin in the cellar help you?”

“We only met him tonight! We’ve never been inside your vault...It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!” Granger’s voice wasn’t strong any longer. She was sobbing her words and he hoped whatever she was lying about was worth it. He hoped it was a lie. Because otherwise it meant she was telling the truth and still being tortured for it.

“A copy? Oh, a likely story!”

“But we can find out easily!” Father announced. Draco had honestly forgotten he was in the room. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”

A slither of dread worked its way down his spine. The cellar was awful. But, he drew himself up, forced his feet to move, prayed his legs would carry him. They were wobbly but true, down the hallway, down the stairs, to the doorway that he had been to, too many times. Sometimes forced to torture, to bring food, sometimes to fetch a prisoner or drag out a corpse...

“Stand back.” He tried to shout through the door. It came out shakier than was desirable. There was no doubt in his mind that Potter or Weasley would try and use this chance to escape if he let them. And as much as he didn’t want them to die, there was no way he was going to let himself be the weak link in this situation. Weak links were killed. Failure wasn’t an option for him anymore if he wanted to live. “Line up against the back wall. Don’t try anything or I’ll kill you!”

Draco had yet to kill anyone. He intended to keep that little streak going. But, they didn’t need to know that.

To his relief, they obeyed, allowing him to march inside, avoiding all their eyes. He grabbed the goblin and pulled him out of the cellar. It’s skin was rough and dry, cooler than his own. Draco set his teeth, keeping his strides shorter than normal so that the goblin didn’t fall in its attempt to keep up. He had no desire to actually drag the creature across the floor.

Granger’s screams accompanied their return. He wondered if he would ever forget the sound. Probably not. It was just one out of a thousand things that would never leave him. Unless he died, of course.

As time had gone on, his self preservation had been like a pendulum. One day he was desperate to survive, willing to do nearly anything to ensure it. The next he was certain he would gladly let the next person who threatened to kill him sling the final curse. Hell, he had even considered doing it himself on particularly awful days.

The main thing that held him here was his Mother. Who was still standing near the fireplace, watching for his return. She met his eyes and nodded. He let his hand drop away from the goblin, before walking to meet her. Everyone was suitably distracted enough that she let her hand press against his back for a few seconds. He let himself lean into it before it all fell away.

Hermione Granger was shaking with tears on the ground. Draco shut his eyes. He felt only marginally calmer with his Mother nearby.

There was a distant - _crack_ -. Draco assumed it was the fire. Father assumed differently.

“What was that?” He yelled. “Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar? Draco--” He felt his insides twist. “No, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!”

Wormtail was one of the few Death Eaters that Draco wasn’t afraid of. Disgusted by, yes. Afraid of, no.

So, it was actually a bit of a relief to run near to the West Wing’s study where he knew Wormtail tended to hover about in semi-seclusion. When he reached the room, the man looked up at the door with an expression of apprehension. Though that seemed to almost be his default expression. “My father says you should go check the cellar.”

Wormtail looked about as pleased as Draco was over the whole situation. But, Draco hated to have anything in common with the rat bastard, so he forced himself to straighten up and paste the famous Malfoy sneer on his face. Wormtail shuffled back down the hall to do father’s bidding and Draco returned to his mother’s side.

There was silence for a few minutes. Granger was still breathing even if it was weak and he felt a rush of relief. Though she had obviously passed out, exhausted from the pain. It was silent, as the occupants attempted to hear what was happening in the cellar. There was the distant sound of the creaky metal door opening and a faint scuffling noise.

Father walked towards the cellar entryway. “What is it, Wormtail?”

“Nothing!” The man yelled back. “All fine!”

Lucius hummed in derision. “I could have sworn I heard something.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Well, how many times have you bragged that the cellar is inescapable? You’ve merely wasted all our time.” She turned finally to Griphook who had been standing there stoically. The dark haired woman thrust the sword in its direction, reluctantly letting it take it in tiny hands. “Well?” She demanded of the goblin a few seconds later. “Is it the true sword?” 

It took a few more moments where it examined the blade before, “No.” Griphook looked up at Bellatrix with beady, cold eyes. “It is a fake.”

Draco knew he should probably care in some way about the sword and if it was real or fake or if it came from Bella’s vault or not. He knew she was obviously deeply concerned about it and how the Dark Lord would react. And yet, once again, he felt his mind floating above his body. It was probably a new record for him. Oh well, it let him distantly try and occlude parts of this day. Hopefully shoving it behind enough walls, hidden thoughts and fake feelings that should the Dark Lord desire to dig, he wouldn’t immediately tear through his defenses like wet parchment and discover Draco’s small treachery.

“Are you sure? Quite sure?” Bellatrix’s chest was heaving, her eyes wild.

“Yes,” Griphook replied, calmly. He got to see all the concern leak from her body. Funnily enough, it wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Good.” She said before casually cutting the goblin’s face open with her wand and kicking it aside. Draco turned back to the fireplace,a tiny refuge against the violence he had no stomach for. “And now we call the Dark Lord!” Her voice triumphant and much too happy. Even the numb floaty feeling couldn’t mask the trepidation that worked its way down his spine.

He knew the second Bellatrix touched her Dark Mark because his own writhed on his arm; slimy and alien; an acknowledgment. It’s Lord was coming. And with Him would follow humiliation, pain and death. A kind of desolate emptiness, broken apart only by fear and brief bouts of helpless anger. The knowledge that his use was that of leverage against his parents. And even that was precarious. Any second Draco's life could be snuffed out with no more effort or importance than that of a lit match. The Mark writhed, slimy and alien and yet a part of him. Like an extra infected limb that he didn’t want, sutured to a perfectly healthy arm. It’s Lord was coming.

Draco counted to twelve.

“And I think we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.” Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Images of Greyback’s previous victims flashing before his eyes, all torn flesh and gaping red. The ones who survived wished they hadn’t. Hermione Granger, mudblood and girl, would not survive. No. No. No.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Someone else yelled and there was a flash of red hair, as Weasley ran into the drawing room. Bellatrix turned her wand on him.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Potter roared, taking Bella’s wand for his own as he bounded after his friend. Draco spun to watch, knowing that everyone else did too. Honestly, he didn’t know if he was shocked or not that they had escaped the ‘inescapable cellar’. Potter seemed to be an expert at doing the impossible. Even dirty, injured and hexxed, Potter was a sight to behold; all righteous rage and determination that never seemed to falter. 

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Potter yelled then, catching his father in the chest and sending him sprawling. Nearly instantly, a familiar and helpless white hot rage jerked Draco into action. He responded with his own stunner, though his hand was shaking so bad it probably would never have hit the fucking git anyway.

“STOP OR SHE DIES!” Bellatrix heaved Granger’s limp form up and holding the dagger to her throat. “Drop your wands.” She whispered, eyes wild and fathomless, cold and murky like stagnant water. “Drop them or we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

The two boys froze as if they'd been stupefy'd. “I said, drop them!” She shrieked, pressing the blade into Granger’s throat, beads of blood appearing. Draco swayed a bit.

“All right!” Potter dropped his Bellatrix’s wand to the floor, Weasley doing the same, before they both raised their hands.

“Good! Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!” Bellatrix gloated. 

And despite all the evidence to that being true, some part of his mind Knew it would not come to pass. Harry Potter would not die today. It was like knowing how to blink and breathe, that his mother would always be there for him, that summer would come after the spring.

Draco wasn’t sure he would be able to move to obey Bellatrix’s command to pick up the wands but, luckily his body didn’t need any input from his mind to put one step in front of the other. He grabbed them from the ground and rushed back to his position.

“Now,” His insane aunt said softly, as if reading a bedtime story to a reluctant toddler. “Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight.”

Before Draco could start to panic again for he knew Potter wouldn’t die tonight, but what about the others?, there was a peculiar grinding noise from above. Every person in the room simultaneously looked up just in time to see the crystal chandelier shake and creak. The hundreds of crystals jingled together, deadly, precarious. The entire thing gave a final ominous, jerky jangle.

Then it fell.

With Bellatrix directly beneath it. She screamed and dropped Granger before throwing herself to the side. It crashed to the floor, an explosion of crystal and chains. Glittering shards flew in all directions. Sharp pain had him doubling over with a yell, hands going to his face, warm sticky blood covering his fingers instantly.

So, when Draco felt the wands be pried from his hands, he almost didn’t notice right away. It was only when he realized that the culprit had also grabbed his own wand, that Draco staggered to a upright position, one hand still clutching the wound on his face, the other reaching out to, to...he had no idea. Something less worthless than stand there and bleed.

But, then he got to watch as Harry Potter used all three wands to stupefy Greyback and send him flying up towards the ceiling before crashing to the ground in a heap. Draco was terrified and in pain. He still felt a thrill of sadistic glee at the sight. Mother’s hands, small but strong, grabbed his arms and yanked him backwards, away from Potter. Her grip on him so tight it hurt.

“Dobby!” He heard her scream. Draco stiffened because he hadn’t heard his mother scream in a long time. Quite possibly the last time had been when he’d attempted to fly to the moon as a child. “You! You dropped the chandelier--?”

Their house elf. Old house elf. The one who had always had a bit of a rebellious streak no matter how many times Father had tried to beat it out of it. Who had somehow managed to free itself from servitude, causing Father to rage in his study, throwing books and objects around in a whirlwind that eerily resembled tantrums Draco used to have.

The tiny elf strode into the room and stood up tall, looked down its nose on all them; Bellatrix, his mother, father, himself. Greyback, still unconscious and hopefully staying that way. “You must not hurt Harry Potter!”

“Kill him, Cissy!” Bellatrix screeched. And even before Mother could shoot off a spell, her wand had been plucked from her fingers with a sharp - _crack_ -, landing on the other side of the room. “You dirty little monkey! How dare you take a witch’s wand, how dare you defy your masters?”

“Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!” The insane little thing squeaked as loud and as proud as he could.

Draco knew his mouth was hanging open. His heart beating fast like a drum at the sheer audacity. It was one thing to know that their previously timid little house elf had gone free and another to SEE it. To see it defy everything it’d been ordered to do and be, generations of servitude, gone. As if it had never truly been. The majority of him was shocked and angry.

Some other tiny part, roared with a deep yearning he could hardly recognize.

Potter yelled, “Ron, catch--and GO!” He threw Weasley one of the wands he must’ve scooped up in the distraction before bending down to fish Griphook out from the chandelier. The other hand reaching out to Dobby. The house elf lunged forward to grab it. The image would stick with Draco forever. 

The Boy Who Lived spun on his heel, preparing to disapparate.

Bellatrix screamed, throwing her knife at the rapidly vanishing figures. It, along with their prisoners, vanished with a loud - _crack_ -.

Draco didn’t really notice how Bellatrix was throwing things, shrieking incoherently. His mother’s cold , smooth hands lifting his chin to see his face. The injuries there were still oozing blood. Didn’t pay attention to the pain that radiated from several distinct cuts. He didn’t notice how his hand felt empty without a wand. His wand. In the hands of Harry Potter. Draco felt no real relief that the Gryffindor trio hadn’t died today. Despite it being all he had really wanted the last hour or so.

No, he noticed none of this.

Because the Dark Lord had just appeared in the Drawing Room with a somehow more ominous sounding - ** _crack_** -. The minimal light in the room seemed to shrink from him.

Draco somehow knew that his previous experience with being crucioed was somehow going to be nothing compared to the upcoming punishment, if he went by the cold rage on the alien face of his Master.

And he thought of Dobby. Who had escaped his chains with clothes and the help of Harry Potter. But, Dobby had never chosen his chains.

Draco absently grabbed the burning Dark Mark. There was no hope of escaping ones of his own making. He closed his eyes.

And counted to twelve.

**Author's Note:**

> I believe Draco dealt with lots of the harrowing stuff up close and personal during the War and it helped change him. More dramatically than J.K. Rowling let him in canon. We never got that redemption arc and it sucks. 
> 
> He is not secretly good here, or even fully repentant. He is terrified and wants out of the situation. He has a very vague idea that what is happening is wrong,and not just because it's effecting HIM. He is a complex character, with grey morals. Because that is what he was taught. 
> 
> I want to write a longer piece one day of all the stuff he went through and his mental journey to realizing everything he ever knew was wrong. 
> 
> And the Seer portion is just because I think it's fascinating and one of my favorite ideas for Draco and it's very rare to see anything for.


End file.
